yourself. You are making a mistake….”
“You are making a damned noise!” the general said angrily, his whiskers bristling. “I know that, sir!” He shook his newspaper with a snap and buried his head in it again.
“Come on, old chap.” The banker took another step towards Eustace and put his hands forward as if to restrain him. “A good douse of cold water and you’ll feel better. I-”
“I am as sober as a judge,” Eustace said between his teeth. “And if you touch me, sir, if you put one hand on me, I swear by God I shall lay you flat. This man”-he was still looking at Hathaway-“has committed murder. I am not speaking figuratively but quite literally. He cold-bloodedly and intentionally took the life of another man by poison.”
This time no one interrupted him. Hathaway sat smiling very slightly, composed, tolerant.
“Poisoned his brandy right here in the club….”
“Really … Come now,” the bishop spluttered. “That’s …”
Eustace glared at him and he faded into silence.
“You are the executioner!” Eustace swung back to Hathaway. “And I know now how you did it! You went to the cloakroom and changed into a steward’s jacket, then came back into the main room, gave poor Sir Arthur his poisoned drink, which you had prepared, then went back to the cloakroom….” He stopped. He could see by the sudden whiteness of Hathaway’s face that he was no longer sure of himself. He was shaken; for the first time he was afraid. The secret he had trusted to protect him was not secret anymore. Eustace saw the fear in his eyes, and now he saw also the violence. The mask was gone.
“I am arresting you for the poisoning to death of Arthur Desmond….”
“Absolute nonsense,” the earl said levelly. “You are drunk, sir. Arthur Desmond took his own life, poor devil. We shall forget this appalling behavior of yours, March, if you withdraw this on the spot and resign your membership.”
Eustace turned to face him, recognizing another member of the Circle, by act if not by feature. “If that is what you wish, sir,” he said without giving an inch, “then it must be that you are equally guilty with Hathaway. You have perverted your power, sir, and betrayed all that is best in England, the people who trusted you and whose labor and belief gave you the very position you now abuse.”
Hathaway had risen to his feet and made to move past Eustace. The earl took Eustace’s arm in a tight grip and pulled him sideways.
Eustace was outraged. He was of a robust physique, and a disciple of good health. He landed a powerful and well-placed punch on the jaw of the earl and sent him crashing backwards into one of the armchairs.
Hathaway lunged past to escape, swinging a hard kick at Eustace which landed on his shin with acute pain. Eustace swung around and dived after him, catching him in a tackle which would have been cheered to the echo in his rugby-playing days. They both went down onto the floor in a crash, kicking over a small table, splintering one of its legs, and sending a tray of cups and saucers flying to break in shards all over the carpet.
The door was thrust open and a horrified steward stared with utter dismay at the earl spread-eagled across the chair, and Eustace and Hathaway locked in desperate combat on the floor, thrashing around grunting and gasping, arms flailing and legs kicking. He had never witnessed a scene like it in all his life and he had no idea what to do. He stood in an agony of indecision.
The general was shouting out commands no one was obeying. The bishop was making noises of disapproval and muttering something about peace and wisdom, and was totally ignored.
Out in the hallway, a judge of the Queen’s Bench demanded to know what was going on, but no one would tell him.
Someone sent for the manager. Someone else sent for a doctor, assuming that one of the members had taken a fit and was being restrained, with difficulty. An advocate of temperance was delivering a monologue, and one of the stewards was praying.
“Police!” Eustace shouted as loudly as his lungs would bear. “Send for the police, you fool! Bow Street … Inspector Pitt.” And with that he hit Hathaway as hard as he could on the point of the jaw, and his left foot caught the table on the other side and sent it hurtling sideways into the trolley. There was a final crash as a decanter of brandy and half a dozen glasses smashed on the wooden floor at the edge of the carpet.
Hathaway subsided into unconsciousness, his body limp, his eyes closed.
Eustace did not entirely trust him. “Get the police,” he ordered again, struggling upright to sit astride Hathaway’s chest.
The steward in the doorway hastened to obey. That at least was an order he both understood and agreed with. Whatever was going on, the police were obviously needed, even if it was only to remove Eustace himself.
Then he was face-to-face with the impossible, the worst offense of all. There was a woman standing in the doorway staring into the blue room and watching the appalling scene, a young woman with chestnut-colored hair and a very handsome figure, and-although her eyes were wide with amazement-she was also on the verge of laughter.
“Madam!” the bishop said in horror. “This is a gentleman’s club! You are not permitted in here. Please, madam, observe the decencies and take your leave.”
Charlotte looked at the debris of broken china and crystal, spilled coffee and brandy, the splintered furniture, the overturned chair, the earl with his collar askew and a bruise fast purpling on his cheek, and Eustace sitting astride the still-senseless form of Hathaway on the floor.
“I always wondered what you did in here,” she said mildly, but there was a lift in her voice, and a slight huskiness that threatened to erupt in giggles. She arched her eyebrows very high. “Extraordinary,” she murmured.
The bishop said something completely unholy.
Eustace was beyond embarrassment. He was flushed with victory both moral and physical. “Has anyone sent for the police?” he asked, looking at each in turn.
“Yes sir,” one of the stewards said immediately. “We have a telephone. Someone is on their way from Bow Street right now.”
Charlotte was bundled out and persuaded to wait in the foyer, and that only on sufferance. The blue room was out of bounds. For goodness’ sake, it was out of bounds even to junior members!
Eustace refused to leave Hathaway, especially when he regained consciousness (albeit with a profound headache), although he remained silent and made no protest or defense.
When Pitt arrived he found Charlotte first of all, who told him that Eustace had solved the case, adding modestly that she had given him some assistance and direction, and that he had the murderer under citizen’s arrest.
“Indeed,” Pitt said dubiously, but when she explained to him precisely how it had come about, he was generous in his praise, both of her and of Eustace.
Some fifteen minutes later Hathaway, under arrest and manacled, was put in a hansom cab to the Bow Street station, and Eustace emerged to receive the praise of his fellows. Charlotte was sent home, under protest, in a hansom.
On the journey towards Bow Street, Pitt sat in the cab beside Hathaway. Hathaway was manacled and unarmed, but still in his quiet face with its long nose and small, round eyes there was a sense of strength. He was afraid-he would be a fool not to be-but there was nothing of weakness in his expression, no suggestion that he would break the covenants by which he too was bound to the Inner Circle.
This was the man who had murdered Arthur Desmond. It was Hathaway who had slipped the laudanum into the brandy and passed it to him, and then discreetly left, knowing what would happen. But it was the whole senior hierarchy who was guilty of his death. Hathaway had carried out the sentence. But who had pronounced judgment, who had given the orders that Hathaway had obeyed?
That was the man Pitt wanted. That was the only justice which would be enough to take to Matthew, and more importantly still, to ease the ache of guilt within himself and allow him to rest with the memory of Sir Arthur.
He believed he knew who it was, but even certainty was futile without proof.
He glanced sideways at the silent, almost motionless figure of Hathaway. The small blue eyes looked back at him with biting intelligence and hard, ironic humor. Pitt knew in that moment that whatever fear Hathaway might
